


Slice of Heaven

by helterskelter



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Asperger's Syndrome, Belting, Biting, Body Dysphoria, Bruising, Canon Typical Violence, D/s, Depression, Discussions of Self Harm, Explicit Language, Gore, Hair Pulling, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Non-Sexual Discipline, Non-Sexual Submission, Obsessive Love, Overstimulation, Possessiveness, Praise, Self Harm, Semantics, Spacedogs, Spanking, Stimming, Tattoos, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, nigel is nigel okay, tattoo blues, the worst pacing in the world, there may be a happy ending, there will be angst, this is going to be easier on everyone if you just click 'entire work' view
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23757373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helterskelter/pseuds/helterskelter
Summary: In which Adam considers getting a tattoo, the boundaries of words, and symbolism.In which Nigel thinks his darling's mind works in beautiful and unpredictable ways.And, in which, it can still all turn to blood in an instant.Set in the 'Rules' universe by Stratumgermanitivum
Relationships: Nigel (Charlie Countryman)/Adam Raki
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stratumgermanitivum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Changing the Rules](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707229) by [stratumgermanitivum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum). 



The common assumption of the rigidity of Adam’s tendency toward literal interpretation was that it was due to a lack of semantic nuance or imagination. It was not. Language had rules. When broken into its more minute components – words – there were defined meanings, agendas…precision. There was connotation too, that which could be readily extrapolated from the metadata – the words that defined words, their history, their context and relation to other words in the assembly of larger strings of meaning – and that which…could not. The type of understanding that was easily accessible only to those who could read the road maps of tone, body language, facial expression. The social cues that lent flexibility to what was otherwise a logical exercise. The means to break the rules. Adam’s mind did not lend itself to this particular brand of flexibility, the language of nonlanguage, that was so common among neurotypicals. Rules and meaning were there for a reason, and though he understood that this second language of anarchy existed for so many, even appreciated it to a limited degree when his friends or husband had so seamlessly utilized it to achieve a goal that directness did not (though the reason for this was beyond him, in fact, was simply not rational or efficient, and demanded so, so much effort to parse), the mechanics of utilizing and understanding this second language effectively were beyond him. This did not suggest that there was no play within the rules, no imagination for the way that they were chosen. The path through this simply had to be reasonable, even if limited by the discomfort of where certain words blurred categories, deceptions in themselves.

It was a mental exercise Adam did not delight in, however, one that was necessary to perform, particularly when the urge for privacy overtook him. Privacy, the peace to explore a fixation on his own, the mental space freed from the effort of emotions and expectations and _reactions_. Not _secrecy_ , which rubbed uncomfortably against his insides as intentional deception, riddled with the anxieties of those same reactions and expectations – the hiding of wrongdoing. There were things that were private, as Harlan or Beth often had explained to him, that were meant to be or at least permissible to keep to oneself or made others uncomfortable to be told. His limited understanding of what these were to other people notwithstanding, it was a concept he could connect with. Despite his lack of reserve in explication on nearly any subject – with or without prompting – there were those things Adam preferred not to discuss. Or not to discuss until relevant.

Nigel, on the other hand, was fluent in all those grey and shadowed forms from secrets to half truths and lies of omission to outright deceptions, enough to sniff them out as soon as they began to linger in is presence, enough to weave them himself, all spoken in the smokey husk of his thick accent as easy as breathing. Not to his Adam, however. And not often enough to feel entirely natural, not that he ever felt remorse for misleading some cocky fucker who thought they’d gotten the better of him, no, Nigel simply preferred to operate without so much _bullshit_. He was clear with his intentions, with the consequences of disrespect or challenge, and though the rage that fueled them might be masked behind contradictory expressions, common of apex predators, the fuse on his benevolence was a short one, and he held no compunctions about following through on the necessary penalties of earning his displeasure. The streets of Bucharest were painted with the blood of enough fucking liars for everyone to know not try to deceive Nigel Lăzărescu. Fortunately for him, his darling Adam hated lying as much as he did. Not that his stormy eyed angel was incapable of misdirection by omission, no, Nigel was not _blind_ , Adam was simply horrible at it and reacted so beautifully viscerally whether he was the offending party or the offended.

This commonality suited them both.

This commonality did not mean that there were not borders of privacy that curtained off aspects of their lives from each other. Nigel spared his beloved the illicit particulars of his work, and Adam held from him galaxies of incomplete fixations, past and present. Not having immediate access to all the thoughts in his love’s brilliant mind didn’t bother the bad man from Bucharest, because when his gorgeous boy had finished working out a new puzzle, a new obsession, he would tell him – often at length, but this too didn’t matter, because Adam always told, because it was Adam telling him…because while the slight boy from New York might have a mind capable of being captivated by a multiplicity of cosmic minutiae, Nigel’s held only one with scorching intensity: Adam.

On this occasion, however, the concept that had caught Adam’s attention with single minded ruthlessness – yet one more trait Nigel appreciated about his beloved, that intoxicating, stubborn, focus that rivaled his own hunters instincts – was not astrophysical, was not even theoretical or abstract, it was the thought of having ink etched into his skin, of being tattooed.

The idea had never seriously occurred to Adam particularly prior to his move to Bucharest, his aversion to change, particularly such a permanent one, made the appeal somewhat difficult to grasp. No, as with many other things he would not otherwise have learned, this was something he learned to appreciate from his husband – by appreciating his husband. So many nights of tracing the inked lines that painted Nigel’s throat, his bicep, his shoulder had brought out the curiosity of it to him. What had it felt like?

“Cat scratches, angel.” The curious tilt of head and peculiar smirk that came with the answer were lost on Adam, an expression Nigel often wore but that could mean anything from teasing (not done often, due to Adam’s preference) to mere interest, “Thinking of marking that gorgeous skin of yours, are you? I thought you preferred leaving that job to me.”

Adam had frowned in consideration, the answer to those questions were No, he hadn’t been, and Yes, he really did, briefly followed by the thought that the low rumble Nigel spoke the words in went straight to his cock, but none of these considerations lasted for more than a moment as the larger man had taken it upon himself to nip and suck a sharp mark into Adam’s ribs that made him squirm and gasp, “Nigel-”

Another livid mark from sharp teeth followed the first before a smirk and kiss were pressed to the spot, a place with enough nervous stimulation to tickle normally now caused the smaller man to writhe against the sheets in open arousal, voice pitching to a slight whine, “Nigel-please-”

“Please ‘what’, my darling? If you don’t tell me, how will I know what you’re begging for?” Nigel loved to tease. Adam’s fingers knotted in sandy locks, tugging him closer, words caught in his throat until strong hands pinned his wrists above his head with a warning growl answered by a panted whine.

As much as the other man enjoyed his sounds, Adam knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted unless he asked, it was simple like that with Nigel, “Please, Nigel – again – “

“You want me to bite you again, gorgeous?” Nigel clarified helpfully and Adam bobbed his head in quick agreement, arching against the pressure of the hold until another hand found its way to his hip, a steady weight binding him to the mattress as his husband’s teeth found their way over a nipple, sinking into the pectoral muscle enough to bruise and drag out a keen, Adam’s hips bucking, searching for friction – for _more._ But it was just the once. A goad Adam had agreed to by accepting the limits of the words that weren’t his own. A soft huff of frustration left the younger man, to Nigel’s amusement as he licked over the mark too light to satisfy his love, coaxing out those delightfully direct demands,

“I w-want you to bite me _more_ – Nigel – please – I want you to hurt me, want you to leave bruises – I w-want –“

Nigel’s eyes had brightened at the words that tumbled from his angel’s lips, stoked the possessive coil that burned hot in his gut, “Never one to disappoint, are you, beautiful boy? You want me to bite and scratch you as much as I like, fuck you until you can’t even scream my name so prettily, mark you up so you feel it for _days_ , sore and aching until you can barely fucking walk – is that it, darling?”

The effect of the words was immediate, because it is _exactly_ what Adam wanted, and his voice pitched frantically to get it, “Y-yes – yes – Nigel – please – I want that – all of that – I want you to –“

A shark smile graced the Romanian’s face, “Don’t worry, baby, tonight I’m going to fucking _ruin_ you.”

While Adam undoubtedly would have argued the semantics of that promise had he not been otherwise occupied, it could not be said the next morning that Nigel was not a man of his word. Yet, in snatches of moments, those storm and tear stained eyes so dismissive of eye contact had fixed on the black lines of the woman over windpipe, pulsing, mirroring almost his own twisting beneath the larger man, and the idea took root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as a oneshot gift idea for Stratumgermanitivum's excellent Rules series, but has gotten away from me a bit, so likely at least 3 parts. More tags to be added as they arise. Hopefully, enjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t that Nigel didn’t see the way his beloved seemed to delight in the marks of dominance, marks that had previously whispered insidious little doubts and concerns to the bad man from Bucharest about the violence inside of him, that one day he might push the other too far, too hard, towards the (rightfully earned) fear so many had of him, it simply didn’t occur to him that the younger man might take action on his obvious desire for permanency in those markings – aside, of course, from begging and goading Nigel to restake his claim, renew the vividness of each signifier of their mutual devotion. There was no question of Adam trying to replicate those marks himself, either.

No, Nigel would absolutely not allow his beloved to harm himself in any way – whether through those outbursts of fury filled overload that led to his darling’s necessary restraint until he could be gentled down, or through the experimentation of self pleasure that had on one occasion led to Adam biting and sucking angry marks along those delicate wrists and arms. The blaze of possessive jealousy that roared through him after the initial jolt of worry at actual injury had nearly consumed him, as though another had staked claim where only his marks belonged, only softened by the same blunt honesty and confusion that he found so endearing in response to his “What the _fuck,_ Adam – “,

“I like the marks. They remind me of you. I thought if I made them it would be the same. It wasn’t. I experimented with different amounts of pressure, placement – but I can’t reach the same places you can, only my arms, I suppose I could have reached my ankles, but you’ve never bitten me there so I wasn’t sure, but I’ve read several articles on the neurology and psychology of self stimulation that were helpful in explaining the limitations of sensation when the brain is anticipating an action nervous reaction to stimulation is di-“

Squeezing over the wrists held before him, Nigel had drawn in a steadying breath through his nose, unable to listen to the full explanation some shitstick academic had written, “You did this trying to get off on it?”

Adam had tilted his head curiously at the statement of what he had believed he had clarified as obvious fact, “Yes, I just said that. I like when you leave bruises. They remind me of you. So, I thought – “

Realizing he was due for a repeat of the earlier explanation, Nigel cut him off, sharper than he might have otherwise, “What are the rules about hurting yourself, iubit?”

“I wasn’t –“

“What are the _fucking_ rules, Adam?”

“I don’t get to hurt myself, Nigel.”

A sigh of relief though it was clear Adam still disagreed to some extent, “That’s right, gorgeous. Who does get to?”

“You, Nigel.” A softer, warmer sound left the smaller man as his eyes leveled somewhere around Nigel’s jaw, as close as he normally got to eye contact.

An addendum to the rules had to be made, a loophole of pain for the sake of pleasure Nigel had not seen before, releasing a wrist to cup his angel’s jaw he made it, it was for Adam’s safety after all, “No kinky shit without me there – I’m the only one who gets to do that with you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Nigel.”

“Good boy.” He gathered the slighter man in his arms to hold close, breathing in his scent as he willed the blackness and urge to roughly mark his territory into all that pale skin to ease…until the telltale wriggle of the other, not the usual itchy overstimulation of touch, but arousal as hope lit his voice, nuzzling alongside the old ink above Nigel’s carotid,

“Am I in trouble then?”

 _Insatiable boy_.

\----

While as far as Nigel might be concerned the matter of Adam marking himself was closed, it was less so for Adam. The rules were these:

_Do not leave the apartment without me._

_Do not leave the apartment alone._

_Always take your fucking gun with you, Adam, how many times –_

_Do not lie to me. Do not keep things from me._

_You are not allowed to hurt yourself._

_You are not allowed to experiment with “kinky shit” on your own –_ Here Adam had made a mental inventory of the things that Nigel would likely consider “kinky shit”, and had confirmed the near exhaustive list with his lover after the implementation of the rule. It included, but was not limited to: biting, scratching, choking (though Adam couldn’t see the occasion on which he might like to strangle himself, Nigel had insisted), pinching, restraints of any kind (Adam had frowned here, the idea of being tied up and waiting for Nigel had definitely had its appeal), spanking, or hitting. Adam could see the reasoning, it was dangerous without someone else – without Nigel – to keep him tipping too far over the edge. _It was also nowhere near as sexually gratifying_ , he had added, watching the other man’s smirk flash at the statement of fact. It held none of the release that being able to surrender completely to the Romanian offered.

This did not preclude, to his mind, the getting of a tattoo. While on the one hand, it involved, to his understanding, a degree of pain that ranged anywhere from ‘cat scratches’ as Nigel had so helpfully provided to ‘agony’ which he believed to be what most people were prone to : hyperbole. This range of response seemed attuned to the individual, which made a precise measurement difficult to ascertain (once again, it would have been more helpful if people simply said what they meant in Adam’s opinion, particularly on what might be arguably a medical procedure), he was certain pain would be present. Which Nigel would disapprove of. On the other hand, it was not, as the larger man had put it “kinky shit” – there was no sexual gratification or motive involved that Adam had uncovered either in his own motivations or in his extensive research. It would be performed in a controlled environment, with an expert, and any pain inflicted would not be, technically, by him. Though this loophole sat somewhat uneasily in his stomach during his ruminations. Hurting himself would not be the end goal, but an incidental aspect of…Here it was easier to refer to his literature of body modification as medical procedure. Clearer. Voluntary procedures, such as giving blood, involved pain, but Adam would not classify that as hurting oneself. Many men and women engaged in the activities of aesthetic procedure, Nigel more specifically, so it seemed an allowable kind of hurt. He had consulted Gabi on this point, likewise, she had reasoned that no, willingly getting a tattoo – or piercing (though Adam did not see the appeal there) - would not count as self harm.

Adam closed his eyes and smoothed a thumb, a bit roughly, over one of the suck bruises left on his wrist, then his ribs, and released a sigh, thinking of the man who had left them there. He was bad at anticipating expectations, it was one reason why the rules were so, so good, but there was some small part still that fantasized about Nigel liking the idea. His idea. Nigel taking achingly long moments to admire the new addition to his skin, the way the older man would breathe out endearments (‘beautiful’ , ‘gorgeous’, ‘mine’) over the space with such conviction that it didn’t matter if Adam didn’t often find them to be objectively true – the last one aside. Nigel looked at him like Adam looked at space – rapturously. It was not often that Adam took other people’s reactions as motivation – too difficult to predict or interpret, too many instances of it going wrong – but the fantasy remained alongside the fixation, the urge to understand, to experience.

Of course, such considerations only existed if Adam decided to follow through on the that had begun to bloom over the past few months. He still had research to complete. He was beyond his stage of preliminary research, the process of tattooing, its history, its meaning, various opinions on the practice that were, largely, irrational or at least that murky area called ‘subjective’ that Adam often struggled with. He knew his own preferences; he knew he sometimes mapped them onto others…he knew he loved the lines that painted tanned skin on his partner. They were simple, yet as captivating as the nebulae that sprawled across the darkness of space. The contrast was attractive. If he were Nigel, he mused, he might say beautiful – ‘fucking gorgeous’. Though he was not entirely sure how the gerundive of ‘fuck’ held such meaning to the other man, almost a superlative, really, though what the comparative might be he wasn’t quite sure…

Twitching out of the rumination, green-gray eyes returned to the screen before him: relative positioning of two particular astronomical bodies: (RA 22:17:29.3, Dec -18:29:08 FK5 J2000) and (RA 20:13:54.9, Dec +02:48:04 FK5 J2000). They had drawn him in over the course of several months. It would have been better to have direct access to a lab telescope rather than relying on captured images (he supposed he might return to his old work space and ask to use the telescope, but that would require explanations and interactions and he hardly felt up to that). But nevertheless, he found himself once more admiring the angle through Mars that connected the two objects. He had already spent a considerable amount of time viewing the surrounding area of each, eyes fixed on the ephemera reports on one side of the screen, the images on the other. One in the constellation Aquilla, the other Aquarius. Now, he had begun to consider their relationship to each other, examining, searching, mapping, finding the ideal third side to the incomplete triangle. _There_. He didn’t even notice anything else until large, comforting arms wrapped around him, teeth nipping at his ear followed by a familiar smokey voice as he squirmed slightly with a ticklish and fond grin at the interruption, “More stars, beautiful?”

“Technically asteroids, in Ancient Greek ‘asteroid’ means like a star, but they’re actually very different. Asteroids are space rocks and –“ And they could have been made out of cotton fucking candy for all Nigel cared, as long as the brightness that overtook his beloved’s eyes when he spoke about them never faded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of self harm, jealousy, pseudo? D/s full time relationship. You'll notice the chapter counter went up by one - I keep getting sidetracked. Unbeta'd. I promise we'll get there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are set into motion. Nigel has to leave on a business trip.

_Tenacious_. The word curls around the tongue like smoke, elusive and yet clinging to every taste bud, the more air it’s given the more pronounced it becomes, hydra in nature. There were many words Nigel would use to describe the mind behind his slender love’s gaze, many words so incompatible with his own. Where Nigel was harsh, gritty edges of sharp consonants like determined, ruthless, unrelenting, Adam was softer sounds of unyielding fixity…tenacious, enrapturing, inquisitive, with his far away eyes and thoughts that could strip the universe bare to understanding, there were times Nigel wished for nothing more than to peer into those depths and see what truth about him laid unflinching beneath. Times like now when he rocked slowly into the slender frame pinned beneath his own, drawing hitched gasps from parted lips but never drawing those eyes away from the brutal twisting scar along his ribs as though it were something mesmerizing rather than the hideous reminder that it was not to trust the fucking bratva – even in one of their own whore houses. Perhaps especially.

Their bodies twined together, dragging out the pleasure in achingly slow lines of devotion, rare among their normal games of rut and ravage…but his angel’s gaze would not be coaxed away, and Nigel knew if he let those slender fingers wander from where they were laced with his own, pinned above his beloved’s head, they would find their way back to the jagged lines of poorly sewn skin, tracing it as reverently and curiously as they catalogued the ill gotten ink of his youth. It had been a fascination growing within that mind of his for months, the same way he stared with rapt attention at those stars of his. The same way Nigel, love drunk Nigel, drank in these softer sounds he could draw from those once touch starved lips like music from the well of soul. As though he could be gifted some prophetic truth spoken in only the tongue known only between each other. He allowed one calloused hand to cup his beloved’s cheek, thumbing over the soft flush of cheekbone tenderly with a wry quirk of lips, _Adam wouldn’t have put up with such romantic musings. So what? He didn’t have to hear them._ Nigel let his forehead rest against his angel’s, briefly forcing eye contact before a rock of hips gave the perfect opportunity to let his elusive darling’s gaze slip away again. But not his lips. No, those Nigel found with a hunger that bordered upon reverence, hand knotting tightly in familiar curls. Whatever dreams his sweet, insatiable boy had found among the markings on his own skin Nigel was sure would soon be known to him…and that ravenous love famished thing inside of him purred, that he, for all his bloodsoaked thoughts and bruised knuckles, could be so fortunate to bask in that singular attention of such a creature. His to hold, his to protect, his to mark.

\---

Adam had researched. He had designed. He had consulted. He now found himself trapped in his own skin, because research had become plan. Inquiry had gained _intent_. Adam preferred in every situation to make his intent plain, to be clear, even though this seemed to make most people uncomfortable. People who rarely said what they meant and spoke in that double language he had only begun to learn. Not people like Nigel. Nigel said what he meant – he _always_ said what he meant to Adam. He even appreciated Adam’s lack of ‘bullshit’ – though this was not a term Adam would choose for himself, there were no bovine or feces involved, though he understood the term well enough when Nigel said it. The relationships between that word and others for his partner primarily had to do with lying or any form of pretense. Adam liked that. He liked that Nigel didn’t lie to him. Didn’t speak in awful, patronizing euphemisms that assumed Adam was too dumb to understand (it was worse when they were so vague that he actually did not). He wanted to tell Nigel.

But he didn’t.

Hands clutched in the softness of sweater over his elbows as he paced, kneading, too much kinetic energy stored up to reach for the pliant clay on his desk, too much even to be soothed by tapping the rhythms of counting. He found his whole body twisting as though unable to break free of the discomfort of the paradox and squeezed tighter. Nigel would have squeezed him even tighter than this, he knew, but the suppression of the sympathetic nervous system and the memory of his partner helped. Until it didn’t. Until the thought of what to do, what to do, what to do, drummed in his head and twisted his stomach with guilt. Adam hated incongruities, paradoxes – not where they couldn’t be filed neatly in scientific discourse as as of yet undiscovered natural behavioural patterns. He forced himself to count still, until his hitched breathing evened and he could almost imagine the husk of Romanian against the shell of his ear telling him, _Good boy._ He wished Nigel was here. And he didn’t. Another paradox. Another inexplicable tug and pull inside him. At least Nigel would be able to explain it. Or Gabi. Even after their misunderstanding, which still seemed quite plain to Adam, he knew she might explain it better. Or she and Charlie might try to drag him off to some hotel somewhere and he would be tired and anxious and Nigel would be furious. In times like these it was easier to refer to The Rules.

_Do not keep things from Nigel._

_Do not lie to Nigel._

He didn’t want to do either of those things, but both seemed necessary in his plan. There was a word for it, his brain shuffled through, queasily setting aside ‘lie’, ‘secret’, he would always tell Nigel if outright asked. He wouldn’t lie to him. He needed to understand the parameters of ‘keeping things from’ better. He had often made the other man dinner without telling him what it was – that did not fall under the same category of things. He turned his mind to what Beth might call this. Oh. A surprise. Did Nigel like surprises? He once would have assumed because he didn’t his partner would not either. Though the word didn’t fit quite right. Surprises were, to Adam, sudden appearances not planned events or happenings. He supposed they might be planned by the surpriser. He had never engaged in the planning of surprises, though the rough man from Romania often surprised him and presented him with surprise gifts. That was okay. Maybe it was okay if it was a gift. Was this a gift?

Stormy eyes fell over the plans, images, placement notes he had gathered, the way he had thought of his partner at times when planning it, fantasized in a way he normally would not have when simply researching. The signifiers of devotion, not metaphors, Adam was never one for metaphors, appealed to him. Maybe they would appeal Nigel too. Like when Nigel had given him the gun, it had pleased them both to see the words of connection. It had pleased Nigel too when Adam had held him at gunpoint in the motel. It pleased Nigel when Adam told him he loved him. Would it please Nigel to read it in his skin? He hoped it would. It would please _him_. A gift is something you give someone with the intent of making them happy. Nigel had once said it made him happy too to give Adam gifts. It still sat uneasy in Adam’s stomach to not tell, but the thought of surprising, of gifting something to his partner (and himself) like this soothed the coil of guilt. This was a gift.

\-----

Business was a bitch. Business with Russians who demanded a meeting outside of fucking Bucharest just to appease their own fucking egos was a waste of time in Nigel’s considered opinion. He did not appreciate anyone wasting his time. He appreciated even less anyone attempting to dictate terms and draw him out of his territory. But sometimes, as that cuntfucker he called a business partner often reminded him, things Nigel didn’t appreciate were part of being in fucking business. For a week this time. Seven shit shoveling fucking days.

Adam wouldn’t be happy. He had been fidgety for days, as though he could sense Nigel’s dark mood on the horizon like a storm. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. They had a protocol – which they both disliked immensely – where Nigel would check in, and Adam would follow his routine…sans Nigel. The thought alone was almost enough to draw a snarl from his lips – Adam alone. _Vulnerable_. He’d place security on him, of course, but even that wouldn’t be enough until his beloved was in his arms again. Exhaling smoke from the burning drag he had taken from his third cigarette of the evening he pushed aside the sentimentality, the paranoia – _Coke makes you paranoid, arierat_ ” – there was Darko’s fucking voice again. Twat had to be right about everything, even in Nigel’s fucking head.

He scrubbed at the corner of his eye with one palm. The least he could do is work out his black mood on some of those cunts in the club who thought they could get handsy with the girls without paying first, before returning to Adam. He knew the reaction from his beloved - the days of knowing that would wind him tighter and tighter in a way only rough hands could fix. He didn’t want that rage coursing through his veins when he held his beloved and spent the night fucking him senseless, leaving enough hurt in the morning so that his darling would have plenty of mementos to last him at least the first few days. An aching and raw voice that would carry memories of the cock in his throat, knees bruised and stiff from kneeling, ankles and wrists nipped by struggling against cuffs, ropes, hands... Enough pleasure to ease the frown of displeasure that the change in routine would bring to his husband’s features – enough of both to stop Nigel murdering everyone in these fucking negotiations on sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, looking like 5 chapters + an Epilogue. May the writing gods keep that oath.


	4. Chapter 4

There were times when Nigel had to be away on business trips. Adam did not appreciate these times, the way even his weighted blanket couldn’t compensate for the heavy tangle of limbs covering his own at night leaving him restless and agitated in the morning, the reverting to the old routine of making meals for one rather than two (and it was so difficult not to simply make the extra portion even if there was no one there to eat it), the lack of certainty about when Nigel would be able to check in – on the first instance, Nigel had attempted to set a time, but it had only made things worse when he was delayed. Now, the schedule allowed for a broader time frame of when Nigel would check in (after dinner but decidedly before bed). Even this was tricky. And it wasn’t nearly the same as the way those broad hands would pull him against lean muscle on the couch after the dishes were done.

Issues of tactile stimulation aside, there were also other interruptions with Nigel being away. While he was normally quite content to sequester himself in their apartment, lost in one of his projects (whether for work or personal interest), Adam _did_ have friends. Friends who he could meet in familiar cafes and discuss the mathematical and theoretical beauty of space and music with, for instance. This was allowed with distant security, sometimes, though Adam suspected that Nigel had not forgiven Gabi her misguided kidnapping of him and disliked not being available to correct another such mistake if it arose. Adam doubted it would, but he would rather have had Nigel available too in case there was another misunderstanding, though was very clear with Gabi from now on about where his bruises were from, with great detail, so she wouldn’t worry. So far, none of Nigel’s trips had coincided with any of his lunches with Gabi, or her invitations to the symphony, which he had quite enjoyed after having researched the extensive history of the building and company. He had hoped Marco had enjoyed it too, but he hadn’t asked, which he had been told was polite, maybe he would ask Nigel to ask later provided it was still within the acceptable timeframe to ask. People were very particular about appropriate intervals to ask questions. It wasn’t polite, he learned, to ask about someone’s funerary preferences after they had lost a loved one. It was okay to ask these questions sometimes, when people were feeling healthy (which seemed to make the topic irrelevant to Adam), or when one was a lawyer. He wasn’t sure what the appropriate waiting time – or expiration time – between outings was to ask if it was enjoyed. People tended to forget if it had been too long.

There were other times when Adam needed to access lab equipment or better vantage points for his telescope – excursions usually made at night. Leaving the apartment at night, without Nigel, which he had done so often in New York, was very clearly against the rules. The addendum of being attended by security in lieu of his husband was not applicable in this situation, Adam had found out on previous occasion. Nigel also found the need to engage in strange behaviors prior to leaving that Adam had given up understanding. Stockpiling food as though Adam might risk starving at any moment, despite Adam’s observation that there were more than sufficient supplies for the week (at least). He had also taken to making sure Adam’s gun was in his messenger bag beside the computer desk, despite the fact that he had clearly did not want Adam leaving the apartment, so what use it would be was beyond Adam. He had supposed that someone might break _into_ the apartment, but Nigel had made it adamantly (and colourfully clear) that that would not happen.

There were also times when he needed to attend to more practical matters, scheduled appointments, for instance. The scheduling of appointments was hard enough in and of itself, by himself, even the suggestion of rescheduling an appointment raised such visceral objections in his gut that the thought was best avoided at all costs. Instances such as now. To be fair to Nigel, it was an appointment he had not known about. It was also, Adam supposed, better for the surprise that he had not known. It was inconvenient, however, because it meant that Adam had no precedent for the current situation. Nigel had always been available for any medical appointments, and most of Adam’s work meetings were done, out of preference, through Skype. There were few occasions that demanded his expertise in person, but these had not occurred when Nigel was anywhere but Bucharest. He also had limited contact with Nigel to clarify on whether this would be breaking the rules. A sharp shiver rolled down his spine at the thought of being in trouble – but it was dimmed slightly by the fact that the remedy would have to wait until Saturday when Nigel returned, and keeping an outright breach of rules from his partner was still something he was uncomfortable with for any amount of time. A reschedule seemed inevitable without clarification.

\----

He had been quite proud of himself initially, having narrowed down from the variety of artists in Bucharest, to making contact and finding a studio that would accommodate his needs.

_Hello,_

_I am looking for a tattoo artist. I think you will be able to create the design I want. See attached file._

_Your website said you are able to see clients alone. I will need to have the studio to ourselves, as I have a condition called Asperger’s Syndrome that means I can be overwhelmed with too much stimuli._

_Price isn’t included on your website. Your schedule also isn’t included on your website. I will need to know both of these things before setting an appointment._

_I will also need to know your sterilization procedures._

_The aftercare information on your website was helpful, but you did not provide details on where to get the ‘aftercare supplies’. I will need this information too._

_Thank you,_

_Adam_

The response had taken three days, though Adam had not been sure if this was the norm, again, he wasn’t sure if this was part of neurotypical behaviors about appropriate response time or if he had not been clear enough. He considered a follow up email, but decided against it as the response time indicated on the website had said ‘as soon as possible’ and ‘not to email again as older emails are answered first’. The response had been promising, Adam would later recognize the feeling of a knot loosening in his chest as relief though that was not immediately clear to him.

_Hi Adam,_

_I’m very interested in your design! I really love everything you’ve sent over, and the reference photos are a big help. Can you tell me more about what tattoo style you’re looking for? Picture examples help._

_Having the studio to ourselves shouldn’t be a problem. I have some availability at the end of this month, but also next month. I work Tuesdays-Saturdays. Saturdays and evening appointments tend to fill up quickly. I charge per hour, 90E, so the cost will depend on the dimensions of the piece, placement, and client pain tolerance. For the dimensions you gave in your file I would estimate this being a 3-4 hour session, so approximately 270-360E, but if you’re particularly sensitive and we take 5 hours then 450E. I ask for a deposit when an appointment is set (this is 50E)._

_The shop uses standard sterilization procedures – gloves are always worn, we sterilize all equipment in an autoclave, all surfaces are wiped down before and after use, I personally wear a mask when tattooing._

_I’m happy to put together an aftercare kit for you – this would be about 20E, otherwise Amazon is probably your best option._

_Hopefully I’ve answered all your questions, and if you’d like to get started, let me know!_

_Kyra_

_\----_

It had been surprisingly easy after that to work with Kyra on the exact parameters of what he wanted, providing ample examples from his research and offering corrections and suggestions on the sketches she sent him. He had been fairly confident in his own pain tolerance, though not overly so, and budgeted for the 5 hour appointment. She had assured him if it took less time he would only pay for the time it took, not the time booked. He was not a fan of weekend appointments, or evenings, and he doubted Nigel would be either. Tuesday was Laundry Day and Friday was Grocery Shopping. That left Wednesday and Thursday. Adam wanted some time to recover before shopping on Friday, so Wednesday seemed ideal. Midmorning. Kyra advised him to bring something sugary to drink as well as a lunch. It filled him with an energy that frisioned through him, he couldn’t quite place whether it was anxiety or excitement or something inbetween. It was something he _wanted_.

This had all been arranged with the assumption that Nigel would be able to come or at least be available at night to see The Surprise. Nigel would not be. The appointment was in two days. Adam needed clarification now. Not trusting his voice to properly convey what he wanted, he took out his phone to text his husband _,_

_Hi, Nigel. I have an appointment on Wednesday. It will take 4-5 hours. I can bring Marco. It is in the morning. Can I go?_

There was a long pause, and Adam frowned at the screen, reaching for the knotted metal rings nearby that shifted soothingly in his hand to calm the tension twisting through him. Nigel usually answered immediately, or at least read the text immediately. Finally, a few minutes later, _Read at 7:07pm._

Nigel, for his part, in bumfuck Belarus of all places, paused at the text. _What kind of fucking appointment took 4-5 hours?_ Before remembering how long his own and his beloved’s business consultations usually took. While Adam usually couldn’t tolerate that period of time in the company of anyone outside of a work context, in a work environment? About stars? 4-5 hours would be cutting it close for how much his brilliant boy could talk about the sky. His protective instincts still snapped their complaints as he took a drag of cigarette before tapping out a reply, the fucking racket in the club behind him making it impossible to call as he would have preferred. Fucking _mafya_.

 _And you’ll bring what else?_ As soon as he saw the rapid typing he knew the open ended question would include a list of everything from Adam’s laptop to the lint in his pocket and he tapped out another, firmer, answer to his own question,

 _You’ll bring your gun, Adam._ The typing stopped. A long pause – it was still a condition Adam often disregarded, but was nonnegotiable, especially now. Nigel waited for his boy to make the right choice.

 _Yes, Nigel._ A smirk appeared around his cigarette at the response he could practically hear, that greedy, consuming part of him nearly purred, even now.

 _Good boy._ Then, as a precaution,

 _Check in when you get there, when you leave, and when you get home, gorgeous._ Though Adam usually protested or disregarded instructions that seemed only born out of his husband’s protectiveness, he did not want Nigel to worry, so he replied again,

 _Yes, Nigel._ Even if some part of him didn’t feel like an especially good boy when the answer came, there was another part that believed, hoped, so fervently, that this would be as special a gift as those his husband often brought him.

\----

_Wednesday_

Adam triple checked his messenger bag for the required supplies and currency. He had his lunch. He had his file devoted to the agreed upon design, shop location, and appointment time. He had his headphones and several stim toys in case the sensation became too much. He had prepared several playlists in advance, as well as conversation topics about tattoos in case conversation became necessary. He had his phone. He had his gun.

It didn’t take long to drive from the apartment to the shop, its exterior painted in simple and calming black. Tapping out a quick text to his husband as they pulled up, he tucked his phone back into his bag. Stepping out of the car he mumbled a thanks to the man whose sole purpose had been his protection since he had been mugged.

Shoulders hunched with tension, hand gripping his bag at the memory, he reached for the shop door. A woman about his age and a host of piercings he couldn’t begin to name, though the tattoo styles he was familiar with after research, greeted him in a surprisingly English accent, “You must be Adam, I’m Kyra. I’m just getting things set up for you, have a seat.”

He bobbed his head, looking around for the nearest chair and glad it wasn’t too far away in the small shop. The décor was dark and simple, and he was glad for that too, as he drummed his fingers on his knee, nothing too overwhelming. He jumped slightly when Kyra spoke next, “So who’s Nigel?”

Blinking, his mind reeled for the possible context of the question, smiling she clarified, sensing his confusion and the slight tension, “One of the objects in the design is known as ‘Adam’. The other one – boyfriend?”

Smiling with relief and understanding he nodded again with a soft, breathy laugh, “Yes – Well, no, husband.”

“That’s very romantic.” He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or sincere, but she had the same soft look Gabi often did when she talked about Charlie, so he hoped sincere.

“I don’t know. Are tattoos usually romantic?”

“They can be – you’d be surprised. I tattoo’d my partner and my wedding bands. It’s a very devoted gesture, to me anyway. So. Are you ready?”

Something unplaceable but warm spread through his chest at the word ‘devoted’. He liked it. Blinking, he nodded his assent, but had no idea how to proceed. Luckily, she didn’t seem to be expecting too much, and clarified easily, passing him a printed out image, “Have a look at the stencil, and if you like it we’ll tape your shirt up to put it on the skin. I’ll also draw in some of the finer details.”

Stormy eyes drank in every detail, the shading was absent, but the placement of black and white inside nested triangles, mathematical in their precision and fineness, the names of the three planets in view, as well as the two objects at either corner…he nodded and passed it back.

The process of taping and tucking up one side of his shirt to expose his ribs was odd, but better than removing the layers entirely. She sterilized the area before placing the stencil which too was cold, bizarrely purple, and caused him to shiver. He was glad no conversation was required as she drew in a few of the more abstract details about the stars and celestial objects, only asking him to look in the mirror to check he was pleased with where it was. Left side, beginning on the ribs and extending down to his abdomen. Yes.

Soon he found himself laying on his side on the padded table, headphones half on as she spoke, “I’m going to do a test line so you know what to expect and then you can put your headphones on if you’re okay. We can take a break anytime you need one, okay? Just try to breathe.”

He closed his eyes as a buzzing filled the air, bracing himself to jump at the contact that lasted no more than two seconds – a definite sting but mostly simply vibrating. _Cat scratches._ Nowhere near as sharp as the sting of his husband’s teeth or the crack of the belt. He relaxed and shifted his headphones properly on, closing his eyes to count and let his mind drift to the repeated melody and focusing through the sensation. It was oddly familiar…like the way he would find himself sometimes sleepy and heavy limbed when he had only had to focus on being good for Nigel in the club.

\----

Four hours had slipped by with deceptive ease, even with the lunch and small breaks, by the end of it Adam felt groggy and headily sated at the same time, adrenaline had been released and left in its wake that blissful quiet that he so rarely found. A genuine smile left his lips as he looked at the finished piece – She had managed somehow to capture the inky blackness of space without resorting to static shading, depths of black and blue, the slight tinges around the planets…the precise, scientific lettering labeling the objects at the corners of the inner slice of universe. The temptation to study it closer was great, but his eyes were heavy and he knew he needed to get home.

\----

Nigel received two texts in short order.

_Leaving for home now._

_Home. Very tired._

A smile bloomed across split lip,

_Go to sleep, darling. Set your alarm for dinner._

_\----_

Adam barely had time to change out of his clothes, wincing slightly as it pulled the cellowrap taped to his side, placing the clothes in the hamper before changing into his pajamas and nestling under the comfort of his weighted blanket. He blinked groggily before setting two alarms, and tapping out a quick, if regrettably inaccurate,

_Good night, Nigel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the effects of the tattoo - on them both. One more to go (formally) before the promised Epilogue.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thursday_

Adam felt what most people would describe as ‘horrible’. He was exhausted and…there was a sinking feeling of wrongness somewhere in the middle of his gut. He was alone. He had been alone before today. It hadn’t felt like this. He missed Nigel – but he had missed Nigel before this. Maybe he was sick. He doubted that the tattoo could have become infected this soon, it had been sealed off since he left the studio, Kyra had shown through video how the autoclave worked in their shop prior to his appointment. Groggily, he forced himself out of bed towards the bathroom, he knew he could shower, but he had to keep the tattoo covered for at least twenty-four hours before washing it. He was meant to call Kyra immediately if there was any redness, swelling – typical signs of infection. He waited until after he had brushed his teeth to check, slowly peeling off his t-shirt to look at the broad angle of colour, distorted under the plastic. It looked like a bruise, living strokes of black and blue and inky swirls trapped within angles…but it didn’t look infected.

It didn’t look like…him. It looked wrong. Maybe that was the plastic wrap. Maybe it would be better after it was cleaned. He missed Nigel.

It itched under his sweater until then, and he dumped the outfit hastily after lunch to unpeel the plastic from his ribs. He stared at the reflection in the mirror again, chest tightening the longer he looked. Still wrong. Still different. He drew a deep, shaking breath in before stepping into the shower, being as gentle as he could with the slick filmy feel of plasma, but the feeling didn’t go away. When he stepped out of the shower, he patted the wound gently dry, slightly shaking hands smoothing a thin layer of the coconut salve over the area before leaving to pull new clothes on. It was better if he didn’t look at the space that looked like his skin, but someone else’s at the same time.

It didn’t feel like the rough, fraying edges of overstimulation where everything built and built and built until that energy needed an outlet – violent, aggressive, anything. It felt…like after his father died…but less. Like a mistake. Like a loss. It was so much better not to think about it.

After dinner came around, there was no text from Nigel. No call. No goodnight.

\-------

The deal had gone south. Gone south being a euphemism here for fucked more times than a two leu whore at a stag party. It had all started with some enthusiastic testing of the merchandise on the part of the younger crew, fucking animals, or rather…hadn’t started. Fucking baking soda or talcum cut shit – nothing like the premium they’d been promised, that had been sampled by the higher ups. The insinuation of a cheat had evidently offended the delicate sensibilities of the Avtoritet they were dealing with, Nigel had roughly shoved his own crew member back with a snapped, “Shut the _fuck_ up, Andre” , but kept his eyes on the Russian as thumbed a line of the powdered substance – barely repressing a snarl as the unpure scent of ammonia flooded his nostrils – before rubbing it against a line of gum.

The Russian had bristled, watching him and starting to flush and sweat – anger covering fear – and Nigel laughed before spitting out whatever the fuck it was this cunt had tried to sell him,

“What the fuck is this then, Gregoriy? Someone’s _fucking_ baking order? Surely, this isn’t what you dragged us all the way from Bucharest to buy – or have the Bratva’s standards slipped to baking fucking cakes?” He leaned back to consider the dark eyed man, noting the peculiar way his ears seemed to bulge from his head in beaten cauliflower shapes, the way his neck muscles strained with tension at the words spoken in English just this side too sharp and Romanian for the other’s fragile fucking ego, his own muscles deceptively loose like a jungle cat, but cognac eyes unflinching. _The clock’s ticking on my patience, go ahead - pretend it’s an oversight, you sloppy twat._

The other man snapped, harsh, sardonic defensiveness colouring the heavy accent of his words, “The order is the order. Maybe you’ve had your nose buried too deep in your _suka malchick’s_ filthy fucking asshole to taste quality anymore. We have some girls who could help you with that – at least when you were wading in fucking pussy you didn’t have the smell of shit up your nose all the time. Or maybe it’s the taste, too used to suc–“ He didn’t get to finish his sentence before the bad man from Bucharest _lunged_ , hauling the struggling man into the back office.

Nigel had always been good at improvising in a fight – a plastic bag, a fork, a fucking glass – there was nothing quite like watching someone struggle for breath, like a pig squealing and gurgling through a shallow slaughter – nothing like hauling up someone who thought themselves so tall and staring into the ruin of a gouged eye, orb and skin split and pouring life as though gelatin filled pastry, the panic of the other as their throat bobbed around a shard of glass and speaking to them in words that could have been reasonable if they weren’t so soaked in the promise of gore, “So interested in who I fuck, Gregoriy, go on – no? Not feeling the fucking comedian right now? Or maybe what you were really hoping for is a chance to suck my cock? Is that it? Careful of that glass now, wouldn’t want you to die from a deep throating – what would your brothers say?” The sheer terror rolled off the man in sickening, intoxicating waves, good eye wide at the thought that Nigel might actually follow through, might fuck his torn throat until he choked on blood and semen, Nigel only smiled that sneering smile, almost fond for all its cruelty, “Don’t worry, Gregoriy, I wouldn’t let that filthy fucking mouth near my prick – all those nasty diseases cocky shits like you pick up from barebacking their cunts.” The man struggled weakly to get away, to swing and contact with Nigel’s chest, rewarded in turn with a hard fist to his ribs, another hammering into his gut as Nigel’s bloodlust began to rise in a threatening tide, panting as the beating continued, “But let’s put a fucking pin in the bedroom talk – where’s my _fucking_ cocaine, Gregoriy? Where is it? Or did you really fucking think some dopey cunt like you could cheat me?”

He did not get an answer to his question as the office door gave way, and sharp pain stuck in his shoulder. Snarling he ripped out the knife, knowing the wound would be jagged and deep, uncaring as the taste of carnage filled his senses, and there was nothing left of any deal but the promise of destruction. Oh, he would keep fucking Gregoriy alive, but not out of any sense of altruism. The goons he employed in this fucking backwater? Not so lucky, indeed.

\--------

_Friday_

To say it had been a long night would be an understatement – for all parties involved.

Nigel wiped the gore from his hands, but the tang of iron and copper remained. He needed to call Darko. And Adam. His fierce beloved would be annoyed at the missed call, but he would rather hear his love’s displeased, clipped sentences than the gurgling pleas of the Russian he had been up …entertaining all night. Unfortunately, the fuck up with their new business partners meant Adam would have to wait a little longer, and he’d have to try a bit harder to work his way out of the doghouse. He was sure some unlucky soul was bound to find a tongue along the roadside. Wearily, he reached into his pocket for the phone…and then the other pocket…back pocket…. _FUCK._

Snapping at one of the younger crew he wrenched a phone from a shaking hand and promptly told him to fuck off as he dialed his business partner’s number, lighting a cigarette to settle the jagged edges of his patience as it dialed. The other Romanian was not pleased, though not surprised either, but Nigel couldn’t give a fuck what pleased or displeased his business partner at this point, knowing full well Darko would have shot the smug bastard by this point too. That settled he dialed the number that burned in his brain as ‘Adam’, though the poor fuck who had previously owned this phone wouldn’t be getting it back, wouldn’t get a glimpse of those digits if he wanted to keep his fucking eyes.

 _Hello. The number you have dialed is unavailable at this time. Please leave your message for_ Adam Raki _after the tone._

 _The fuck?_ He really must be in the shit. A growled sigh left him as he tried not to let his mind spin through scenarios where some filthy fucking bratva member had their hands on his husband. Rubbing at his eye with the heel of his palm, he tried again. Nothing.

And again.

Adam wasn’t answering his calls.

_Answer your fucking phone, Adam._

Nothing. Maybe Adam didn’t realize it was him.

_Read 4:07pm._

_Adam. Pick up the phone, gorgeous._

He tried again…waited…released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the click of connection of an answer finally came, “Hello, darling.” A shaking breath on the other line pulled his lips into a frown, he had expected fury, ice, for all his softness his love was ferocious and stubborn, so maddeningly stubborn…But this was not that, “Adam? Answer me, sweetheart.”

“H-h-hi, Nigel. You didn’t call yesterday.”The voice was strained, like it was holding back that dam of pressure that threatened to burst when Adam felt overwhelmed, wrong, when he needed to do anything - anything - to shake off whatever it was that he could feel clinging to his skin.

“Sorry, beautiful, business got out of hand.” Nigel kept his voice level, gauging, not wanting to add on to the pile up he could almost feel from the other end of the line. 

“O-Oh. Is it okay now?” Choked, too much, _too much _, the tone nearly bled. Shit__

____

“It’s fine – what’s wrong, iubit? I can hear you fucking shaking.”

____

A strangled, wounded sound stabbed straight through his gut from the other line, a tight sob, “I n..I need you to come home, Nigel. I need you to come home, _now._ ”

____

“Adam. Tell me what’s wrong – are you hurt? Is someone there?” He could feel the pause from where his lover shook his head despite the fact that he couldn’t see, the stammered answer audibly wrenched free from his love's throat that followed did little to reassure him,

____

“I’m n-not hurt, no one’s here, I need _you here_. I can’t- I can’t –“ A panic attack. _Fuck._.

____

“Adam, listen to me, gorgeous: I’ll be home in a few hours. I want you to sit in our bed, wrap your arms about your chest, and count for me, darling. Can you do that?”

____

“Y-Y-Yes, Nigel.” He breathed a sigh, biting back a protective growl at his husband’s distress all because the business had to fucking expand, softening his voice to the low rumble that soothed his angel,

____

“Good boy.” He owed more than apologies to make to his beautiful boy.

____

Another little chat with his least favourite Russian had ensued on the bumpy ride back to Bucharest to soothe Nigel’s black mood.

____

____

____

_\------_

____

____

The more Adam looked at it the less it felt there was something wrong with the tattoo. It was him. It was _always_ him. It was beautiful, if looked at objectively. Looked at it as separate from his skin. Its construction was precise and gave him the sense of the expanding universe, that dark familiarity of eternity stretched out before him, held together in thin black triangles of coordinates with two names at either end designating two specific points in space. _Adam : RA 20:13:54.9, DeC +02:48:04 FK5 J2000_ and....But it wasn’t the same. Maybe Nigel would look at it and see the same thing he did – _different. Too different_. _Exhausting, reckless, Adam._

____

His phone wouldn’t stop ringing, a number he didn’t recognize and didn’t care to check. He set it on the nightstand as he curled back up in bed. He thought he could do this. Surprise Nigel. Not be a burden. He wanted Nigel to come home but the man hadn’t even checked in since Wednesday, the broken routine leaving him more frayed and uncertain overlaying the tiredness. His phone buzzed again: a text. Nigel?

____

Rubbing his eyes, he rolled over and read the familiar message from the unfamiliar number. He dragged in a shaking breath; phones had always been hard for him. Even with Nigel. Even as badly as he wanted to beg him to come home, even as badly as he hated that needy want. Another text and then a call.

____

He wanted to tell his husband what had happened, explain the series of events so Nigel could help make sense of them for him, but the words were too overwhelming to even get out. But he could be good for Nigel. He could wait, and count, and hold himself pretending it was the larger man – if he really tried he could imagine the smell of tobacco and coffee and copper. Even though Nigel hadn’t said to, he found himself on coltish legs walking towards the wardrobe, pulling out one of Nigel’s shirts – a favourite, soft and worn with dachshunds colouring it – and dragged it to the bed with him, wrapping it over his own shirt and breathing in its scent as he held himself close and began to count.

____

____

\------

____

____

____

Nigel could practically smell the discomfort in the air as he entered the apartment, dropping the well used kit of work tools by the door. He’d cleaned the blood from his face and hands, changed shirts into a button through of plain black, the kid he had unceremoniously shoved the old and then gore chunked shirt to to burn had stared at him as though he had clawed his way out of Satan’s bowels. He supposed he looked like he probably fucking did. His shoulder ached from where the vet – the _fucking vet_ – had stitched him up, but that was nothing. No. Right now, he had to find his partner, _wanted_ to find the smaller man and do nothing more than curl up with him, maybe even tie him down and draw him close for a hard, slow fuck that left them both undone.

____

Kicking his shoes off, close enough to the designated mat by the door for it to count, he found his way through the corridor to the back bedroom, something inside him softened and unsettled simultaneously. Adam, his slight boy more diminished than usual as thin arms tightened about lean chest, covering a now even rise and fall, eyes closed and… _fuck…_ clutching one of Nigel’s shirts about himself like a security blanket. Fierce adoration burned under his ribs at the sight of his perfect one.

____

Adam didn’t even notice as he approached, lips softly still counting into the thousands under his breath, and Nigel smiled at the sight of how _very good_ his beloved was for him, even through all the panic, how much trust he placed in him. Cupping his darling’s fair cheek, he knelt to be closer to eye level with his husband, thumbing over the high of cheekbones and sweep of freckles there. Long fingers curled in usually tamed but now panic and sleep tousled locks fondly,

____

“I’m here, my gorgeous one.”

____

The reaction wasn’t instantaneous. Adam drew in a short, shakier breath, opening his eyes as though half expecting the sight to be a dream, his eyes immediately falling to bruised cheekbone and split lip before skittering away to the pretty lady on his neck - and then violently to the other side with a frown.

____

“You’re hurt, Nigel.”

____

This was not the first conversation Nigel had wanted to have with the slighter man, even through his concern fondly amused that that was the first thing to come from those lips,

____

“Very observant, darling. You’ve been sat here since I called?”

____

A nod rewarded with a press of lips to his forehead before strong hands slid their way down tense shoulders – his darling would be as sore as he was tomorrow – to lift him gently up, “Good boy.”

____

The usual moment of relaxation before a flinch. Adam didn’t like having his routines interrupted, the missed call had clearly set him off, but the reaction still pulled a frown from the larger man.

____

“Dinner, shower, bed. Yes, beautiful?”

____

A slow exhale, almost relief in the face of all the thoughts that seemed to have reswarmed him, “Yes, Nigel.”

____

Dinner was quiet – a Mac n Cheese night, because neither of them felt up to anything else – and Adam was…skitterish. Nigel had come to learn his darling’s tells when stressed, the way he would retreat inside when there was something bothering him…when he was keeping something from Nigel. Nigel could be patient, to a point – for tonight. It could be anything – Nigel being away, something someone had said at that appointment of Adam’s, a setback with a project. No, tonight, Nigel would wait for the storm to pass…or at least to make itself clear. He tilted his neck to crack the sore vertebrae there, feeling the adrenaline fade and the pain medicine finally kick in enough to make his exhaustion known to him.

____

As soon as the food was done, Adam bolted for the shower, while dishes were usually Nigel’s chore, Adam not hovering beside him, much less outright fleeing as though to catch up to the agenda on the fridge, was…wrong. By the time cracked knuckles had scrubbed clean the plates, Adam was already washed, pajama’d, and sitting on the edge of their bed, clutching at the mattress as though it could anchor him from drifting off. Nigel arched a brow, stripping out of his own clothes to the boxers and undershirt he normally wore, slotting into his side of the bed behind Adam and placing a hand on his side – which produced a startled twist –

____

“Come here, iubit.”

____

Adam gradually uncurled his fingers before shuffling back against his husband’s warmth, tugging the strong arm around his chest and clutching to the hand tightly as the lights were turned off.

____

____

\-----

____

____

_Saturday_

____

____

Adam slept fitfully. Nigel was here, home, more or less safe – that would have to be determined later – and as much as he had wanted to tell him, to explain, the words kept choking in his throat. Worse, every time his husband reached for him, the itching, irritated skin in his side caused him to jerk away. It was nearing mid-afternoon before Nigel had decided to put an end to it.

____

“Come here, gorgeous.” Adam froze, the proverbial deer in the headlights and turned to where Nigel was sitting, watching him. His feet felt heavy even as they closed the distance, arms wrapping around himself in a soothing gesture until he was inches away from his partner. One long hand took his wrist gently, but firmly, and pulled closer, pressing a kiss to the fluttering pulse that made heat rise in Adam’s cheeks, and then to the palm of his hand, “Tell me what happened, Adam.”

____

The words stuck again in Adam’s throat, “You’ll have to narrow that down.”

____

That earned a suppressed, fond?, eyeroll from the sandyhaired man across from him, “Tell me what’s wrong. If you don’t tell me, I can’t fix it, can I, sweetheart?”

____

The breath left Adam’s chest instantly as he started to rattle off the chain of events, shaking his head quickly, “I got a tattoo on Wednesday, I wanted to surprise you. But I think I did it wrong. It seemed right at first, but now it’s wrong, it’s there and it didn’t used to be there – I – I thought I could handle the change, but it’s – and I wanted to tell you, but you’re not supposed to ruin surprises or tell people about gifts, and I didn’t know what to do –“

____

Nigel was quiet for a long moment, stunned almost, “You got a tattoo, gorgeous? As a gift? For me?”

____

Adam nodded quickly as though not sure Nigel was keeping up, starting to repeat himself, “Yes, and it was okay at first, but now it’s different, it’s change, and what if you don’t even _like_ surprises -`! I -“

____

The hand over his tightened just enough to ground him, voice cutting through his pitching worry sharp enough to draw his attention, “ _Adam._ Show me.”

____

Shaking hand hesitated before pulling up the side of his shirt and sweater, turning to show where the swath of ink mirrored the scar on his lover’s body.

____

Nigel was silent, his hand had slipped to Adam’s hip, the other wrenching the shirt farther away, as he stared. Adam fidgeted, allowed the inspection, voice shaking after a long moment of holding in the need to _know_ , “Nigel, um – I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Right now. I can’t -”

____

Hot lips pressed close to the tattoo in a kiss before Adam found himself being hauled into the larger man’s lap, broad hand in his hair tugging him into a heady, hungry clash of teeth and tongues and devotion. The normally clear accent was thickened with a husky rasp Adam could recognize as desire, “I think it’s the most perfect fucking thing I’ve ever fucking seen, darling.”

____

“O-oh.”

____

____

\-----

____

____

Nigel’s surprise had sent him reeling when Adam had told him of the tattoo, it was the last thing he had expected to hear, and then, seeing it – seeing his name drawn through the stars to his beloved’s in perfect geometrical precision, it was…awing. He had seen cathedrals and opera houses, the grandest Europe had to offer - they were nothing to this, this idea bloomed across his beloved’s skin, marking them as one. His breath tore from his lungs at that thought : _his_. No greater symbol of devotion, the physical instantiation of _til death us do part_ …and even after. Even in the stark darkness of it he could see mottled blues and purples, as though he had made the mark himself. His lover's mind had created from only the desires of teeth and hands such wonderous and infinite unpredictable possibilities, offered them to him as though obvious to all and not simply plucked from the ether. 

____

He clutched the slighter frame closer to his, eyes still reverently fixed to the brushstrokes of color contained so sharply within the parameters of that outer triangle, “How long did this take, gorgeous?”

____

“Oh, um, four hours with breaks.”

____

“Four hours.”

____

“With breaks, yes.”

____

His boy had suffered and bled for him for four hours – with breaks, Nigel – to gift him this, and could still be unsure that Nigel would like it. That it was so, so utterly right on his skin. Desire and devotion burned through him in equal measure, tempered only by the wonder that would have left any other on their knees.

____

“Am I in trouble?” The question drew Nigel out of his reverie for a moment, before he nuzzled against his beloved’s cheek,

____

“No. No penalty for gifts, angel.”

____

“But I kept it from you.”

____

“A surprise.”

____

“You’re the only one allowed to mark me.” Nigel frowned, gentleness was not what his still wound up angel needed. He tilted his head curiously, regarding the strange mix of hope and utter lostness in those stormy eyes. No, what his boy needed was something else from him entirely. Part of him was tempted to ask, but that would let Adam fill in the blanks for what this was for. Gripping him by the elbows, he forced him off his lap, back onto his feet, “Strip, put the clothes in the basket, and come back here. Do you understand, lovely?” A nod but no movement earned a sharp motivating swat before Adam crossed the bedroom and began to strip, Nigel freeing his belt from the buckle and loops to fold double as he watched the pale, slender frame strip with only jittery efficiency.

____

As soon as Adam returned to him, they both knew what came next. Adam climbed over his lap, twisting not to let the still healing skin on his ribs brush against Nigel’s trousers, hands trying to find balance on the floor before Nigel caught them neatly at the small of his back, trapping his legs with one of his own, the first strike landed hard, merciless, but the voice that followed was softer, lower, “Do you know what this is for, Adam?”

____

A quick nod, followed by a shake, and then a gasp as another stripe cut across his rear, “This isn’t for you getting a tattoo, beloved.” Before any protestations could be made another strike landed over his thighs, “This is for your recklessness – I would have said yes. I would have even let you do this as a gift, but you did it when I was away – when there was no one – “

____

Another two, harsher lines blazed red across the slender arse, “ to take care of you after. No one to help you with the change –“ His wounded shoulder ached with the pressure of holding his beloved still, through the snapping pain of a popped stitch, “No one to help you if something went wrong – you left yourself waiting alone – you know better, Adam – there are rules for your safety. Were you being safe?”

____

A pause in the measured stripes and for a moment he thought Adam might argue that he had been, technically, physically, safe – but Adam hadn’t felt safe, alone – and there it was. The small shake of head. _Good boy._ The strapping rained down until lungs hitched against his knees in beautiful sobs, crimson lines that would bruise nearly as dark as the mark of the cosmos on his side raised in harsh welts along his thighs and rear as the belt dropped to the floor and Nigel gathered up his angel into his arms, pressing firm kisses to his temple, “Done now, gorgeous.” Adam only clung tighter to his shirt, nuzzling in and finally, finally going lax. He needed this. Needed Nigel to set things right.

____

____

\-----

____

____

Nigel’s fingers kneaded rhythmically in his beloved’s hair, the other still curled against his chest, before slipping down to brace tight over his arms, slender fingers dipping into to small pot of salve to massage a thin layer into the healing flesh of his side, Romanian benedictions whispered into his hair as firm but reverent hands worked to nourish the mark, watching his love writhe only slightly at the attention to raw skin. He would make sure it healed dark and perfect. They would heal together. His own aching muscles and torn stitches settling over him with their own familiar weight, yet nothing to the scorching appreciation for the man in his arms - brilliant, unpredictable, devoted, _his_ , “Such beautiful gifts you give me, _cel mai iubit al meu,_ you’ve pulled down the stars and made them flesh.” 

____

Soft digits traced over the curved line of the slighter man’s spine, admiring the way the Bucharest twilight mottled and painted its own marks over fair skin like stained glass, "What gifts should I give you?”

____

Sleepy words he did not expect mumbled against his shoulder, "You don’t have to get me anything, Nigel.”

____

A smokey laugh left the rougher man and he twined about his husband tighter, pressing a teasing kiss to his crown, "I will if I fucking want to, darling.”

____

The hands returned to trace around the newly inked flesh, enraptured, soothed and soothing...A promise to cherish until death did they part, every day, letting the wound heal, growing stronger, darker...

____

In time all Adam would remember would be those warm hands smoothing over the slice of heaven that connected them both.

____

____

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to be added after certain events of Hit Me Harder. Sequel upon demand or muse permitting.


End file.
